Control
by StraitjacketChic
Summary: When Tony Stark begins to lose control of arc reactors, he seeks help from the experts: Delilah Solomon, a woman who has dedicated her life to the study of chaos, and Bruce Banner, the man who spends every moment of his existence struggling not to succumb to it.
1. Chapter 1

On June 26, 2011, at 12:04am, PST, Thomas Lindemann (newly minted PhD), checked his watch, stretched his long, narrow frame, and rose to his feet, a broad grin spreading slowly over his face. As he gathered up his papers, he allowed his mind to wander back to his comfortable apartment, the sunlight that would stream through the large, eastward-facing windows, and the three calico cats that would settle over his legs and allow him a long, restful sleep. He had been on monitor duty for three days, with only the occasional blip or minor power surge for company. But now he had earned the feather bed, and the warm chamomile, and the sound of the Bach-Goldberg variations playing softly as he fell asleep. He nodded cheerfully to the small maintenance worker who hurried by, and the man stopped briefly, hesitating.

"You have a good night now, sir. You oughta get home, you've been here for a while."

"I couldn't agree more. I'll be going as soon as my replacement arrives. Goodnight to you." The maintenance man jerked his head in acknowledgment and disappeared into the lift, and it was only minutes later that Thomas realized what what he had said.

_You've been here for a while. _But how would a maintenance worker know that, when he had been there all of an hour, and Thomas had never seen him there before… _Oh._

Thomas leapt into action, pulling up the data from the secondary sensors. Where the primary screens showed regular flux, the backup data showed spikes that Thomas had never seen before, growing exponentially with each passing second. At this rate, the Arc Reactor in the next chamber would explode into a mess of radiation in mere minutes. Hands shaking, Thomas reached for the landline, praying that they (_whoever they were_, he realized with a jolt that he would never know) hadn't cut the line. The dial tone was the sweetest music he had ever heard, and as he dialed Ewan's phone, his finger had steadied.

"Yeah, yeah nearly there, you uptight-"

"No, listen, Ewan, turn back right now."

"What?"

"The reactor is compromised. They hacked our sensors, so I didn't see it, but it's on some sort of amplifying feedback loop. I estimate that it will ignite in approximately 290 seconds."

"Thomas-"

"I need to shut down the facility and contain the damage. I think I can limit the radius of the explosion to this building if we act quickly. I need you to phone Stark's emergency line now-"

"Thom-"

"Shut up, Ewan. Tell Stark to try to cut our power remotely." Thomas spoke quickly and crisply, holding the mouthpiece between his cheek and shoulder, and his fingers flew over the controls as he typed furiously.

"Okay Tom, okay." Dial tone again. Thomas slammed the phone down and continued working. He heard the clicks and slams as the facility locked down. Then there was silence. He sat back and surveyed his work. The collateral damage was minimized. Now came the waiting.

Thirty seconds to go. The ringing of the phone interrupted the thick silence, and Thomas leapt for it.

"Ewan."

"Thomas." Ah. "They couldn't shut it down. Something's blocking the controls." The normally booming Scottish brogue had shrunk into a trembling whisper.

"I see. Well, the damage will be limited to a radius of about thirty meters around the reactor. I'm sure that a containment crew is well on its way, so the effect should be minimal."

"Stark is on the line to speak to you, if-"

"No, I'll talk to you. There was a man here just before the spike. Short, slight, Caucasian, accent from the Midwest, late forties, at a guess. He was dressed as a maintenance man, but I'm certain that he was the operative."

"Okay. I'll pass it on."

"And feed my cats, would you? Chamberlain gets testy and bullies his sisters."

"Of course." The silence bore down on them.

"Is that a Bach cantata I hear?"

"Yeah, I know he's your favorite."

"Indeed. Such a precise mind. Thank you, Ewan."

"Yeah. Don't mention it."

The media coverage of the Arc Reactor explosion received enthusiastic media coverage, which vacillated between a condemnation of Stark Industries' reckless energy policy and (presumably) careless handling of "Arc-Gate" and minute dissection of the character of the late Dr. Lindemann. The accident that had killed the young, handsome German physicist, was quite possibly (as a pretty reporter speculated on CNN) his own act of sabotage on behalf of his own government and the Russians.

Two days later, Tony Stark boarded a private jet and flew to London with his close associate, Bruce Banner (oh what fun the tabloids had with that little partnership) on unspecified business.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony and Bruce sat in silence in the luxuriously-upholstered seats of the Quinjet. "Since we have some time, maybe you'll finally tell me about this girl that you're so intent on recruiting?" Bruce suggested. Tony pondered for a while.

"She's got a great accent," he said finally.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Posh, cut-glass, Oxbridge precision right there. Oh, and she's pretty heavy into Latin aphorisms. And sometimes she leaves people at the altar." Tony seemed to consider this enough information. Bruce didn't.

"Common Latin aphorisms, or really esoteric, pedantic ones?" _Because that was, of course, the most important question to ask._

"Depends on how irritating she's feeling. Watch, she'll drive you crazy within days."

"If I can keep the Other Guy from coming out and killing _you _on a daily basis, I think I can handle a little Latin."

Tony grinned, winked, and settled back in seat, the image of relaxation. But there was a tension in his hands, and furrow in his brow, that had lingered stubbornly since the explosion of the arc reactor.

_One day earlier_

The last 24 hours had been flurries of activity interspersed with long periods of brooding, during which Tony sequestered himself deep in his workshop, responding only to offers of Boba tea from Pepper (much to Bruce's disgust).

Now, he emerged from one of his exiles, tossed Bruce a duffle bag, and told him to pack for London.

There are very few ways to respond to that. One can either throw the duffle bag right back, with additional force for good measure, and demand an explanation, or just shut up and pack. Bruce packed. He was, he liked to think, by no means a man easily steered, but there was something, a glint in Tony's eye, perhaps, that brooked no opposition

So off they went, and it was only in the limousine on the way to the airfield (somehow, Tony refused to see the correlation between flashy modes of transportation and irritating attention from the tabloids) that he had deigned to reveal some portion of his plans.

"I've never seen a problem like this. There's no trace of what went wrong. All we have are the sensors going crazy minutes before the explosion. Someone got into our system and tampered with it, but all the evidence has gone up in flames. All we have is the data that Lindemann sent before-" Tony cut himself off and looked down at his phone, fiddling with the screen and moving icons around the menu. Bruce patted his shoulder awkwardly. What to say in this situation? Nothing. There was nothing helpful to say. Lindemann had been the most gifted scientist that Stark Industries had ever recruited, and Bruce had been shocked at the care with which Tony had cultivated the quiet, studious young man. There was no way to cushion the loss of such promise. Finally, Tony mastered himself, pocketed the cell, and casually resumed his train of thought.

"We need a very particular kind of expertise to deal with this and prevent it in future. So I'm bringing in a systems guy." _Well that's not vague at all. _Bruce waited patiently for further explanation, but it seemed that none was forthcoming. Wrestling back his irritation, he prompted:

"Well?"

"You know, control theory, chaotic nonlinear systems, that sort of thing."

"Those are two different fields. I don't think that you can find a single person to deal with this. It'll need to be a team."

"It will be. You'll help."

"Tony, I'm a particle physicist, not some general-issue comic-book scientist that you can just fire at any ill-defined problem-"

"Nonsense, that's exactly what you are. Sol's that way, too. You'll like her. She's a snob."

"Wait a minute, you already have someone in mind? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well _duh." _It always surprised Bruce exactly how much like a Valley girl his middle-aged genius friend could sound.

"Who? Who could you _possibly _trust enough to deal with this?" Tony extracted a leather case from beneath his seat and handed it to Bruce, who accepted in, perplexed.

"Delilah Solomon, electrical engineer. Currently running R&amp;D in that capsized duck of a company, Williams Innovations. Well, not any more."

"You've already recruited her?"

"Well, yes, in a manner of speaking." Oh dear. That tone was familiar in the worst way.

"What did you do?"

"I bought the company. I mean, it's pretty useless since Sanford's idiot son took over, but I figure it could be fun to raid for parts. Like Delilah Solomon."

"Jesus, Tony, you _bought _her?"

"Well, if you're going to put it that way…"

"_Tony-"_

"Listen. Just read her work and tell me that she isn't exactly what we need," Tony cut through Bruce's objections, gesturing to the case.

"Fine." Bruce began moodily flipping through the thick pile of peer-reviewed papers and proposals. As he read, he realized that Tony was, as usual, partly right. This was what they needed, this analytical power, this ability to reduce and solve complex systems and work from scant information. She had worked in several fields: biophysics and neuroscience, optimization in power systems, and materials.

And, as usual, Tony was partly catastrophically wrong. The mind laid out before him in these papers would not respond well to Tony's brand of persuasion. Bruce winced, imagining how _he _would have responded to an industrial giant waltzing in and buying his loyalty. No, this would never work. Scholars and large corporations were a volatile mix, and Tony clearly did not know whom he was dealing with.

But still, here he was, trapped in a jet with a megalomaniac and his ego, and all he could do was leave them to scheme, soaring tens of thousands of feet above reality.

Author's Note: So I don't really have the expertise to write the technicalities of the problem very specifically, and as a result, the whole plot will be rather hand-waving and vague. Sorry about that. I do like writing scientists, though, so with any luck Banner, Stark, and Solomon will be entertaining. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you sure that this is the best-" Bruce began. Tony cut him off with an airy, dismissive wave.

"Oh, quit being such a Pepper, you're killing my buzz."

"Your _buzz? _What are you, the stoner from an '80s movie?"

"Oh please, all the young people say it. Just because you're not hip to the scene, or… groovy to the… jive-"

"Would you just press the damn button?"

"No, hold on, we need to talk about your killjoy tendencies."

"Fine, I'll do it." Bruce reached past Tony and rang the doorbell, perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary. Tony's monologue subsided to a low mutter.

"You know, healthy couples communicate. They don't cut each other off by ringing doorbells."

"We're not a couple, Tony. You don't have to believe everything you read in the tabloids."

"I think if you read them you'd agree that they make a couple of good poin-"

The door jerked open suddenly, and a alabaster heart of a face appeared in the narrow gap.

"Yes, how can I-" she cut herself off as her eyes landed on Tony Stark. "Oh."

"Honey, I'm home." Tony spread his arms and did his best impression of a winning smile.

"Right." The pale face disappeared and the door slammed shut. Tony dropped his arms and frowned slightly.

"Huh. That's a bit of a setback. I really thought that three years would be enough…"

"Enough? Enough for what? Stark, what the hell-" Bruce began, but Tony ignored him and rapped hard on the door. Bruce felt his annoyance mount. He hated being confused.

"Come on, Dee, open up. Don't tell me you're still upset about that ancient history. It wasn't even that bad." At this, the face reappeared, now with angry patches of color in the cheeks and a thunderous expression.

"_Not that bad?" _hissed the woman, and Bruce had to agree that, even dripping with wrath as it currently was, her voice was breathtaking, husky and precise. Tony swiftly shoved a folder into her hands before she could continue. "What is this?" She snapped.

"A good read, for a start."

"Stark, I'm not one of your pet scientists anymore. You can't just shut me up by hurling a dossier at me..." But as she spoke, she was busily flipping through the sheets of paper, her eyes darting over the columns of numbers. "This doesn't make any sense at all. There's no way that an arc reactor would get caught in a feedback loop like this." Absently, she turned on her heel and wandered back into her apartment. Tony grinned and followed her, gesturing to Bruce, who shut the door behind him. They were in.

Bruce stood in the cramped, albeit thoroughly equipped, kitchen, shifting his weight back and forth and letting his gaze meander over the room. Delilah, still glued to the data, was filling a kettle and Tony had perched on a counter, watching her intently. They continued in silence until the kettle began to whistle and shriek. Delilah glanced up at Bruce and pointed to a black, prettily-carved wooden box.

"Choose. There are loose leaves in the cupboard over the stove if you prefer." Bruce moved obediently to browse the meticulously stacked plethora of options and handed his choice to Delilah. The silence resumed as she measured out the tea, poured the boiling water into a glass pot, and settled at the kitchen table. "Sit."

Silently, Tony and Bruce sat.

"What do you want from me, Stark?" Solomon's soft-featured face looked cold and guarded, and her wide hazel eyes searched Tony's face intently. Bruce watched the teapot as a dark stain began to propagate through the water and the rolled jasmine blossoms slowly opened. Clearly, Tony had left out a few crucial details about Delilah Solomon, but now was not the time to demand answers. Still, he couldn't help but wonder what Tony had done three years ago to set Solomon's mouth in that hard line.

"I just need three minutes of your time. You know what happened in Washington, and you know it can't happen again. If it had been anyone except Thomas on duty, The West Coast would be a puddle of nuclear waste." Bruce looked up in time to see the spasm of grief that passed over Solomon's face at the mention of Thomas Lindemann.

"I still can't believe that he's dead," she murmured quietly.

"Yeah. He did some of the quickest thinking I've ever seen, but we couldn't pull him out in time. I am sorry about that, Sol. He was a credit to you."

"I fly to Berlin on Saturday for the wake. With your permission, of course, since you apparently took it upon yourself to purchase my contract." At this, her eyes hardened again.

"That I'm _not _sorry about. Come on, that company was a train wreck. You were wasting your talents out of spite." Recognizing the signs of fury rising in Solomon's face, Bruce came to a decision. He had to stop Tony before he alienated her completely.

"Tony, would you back off?" he interjected. Solomon shot him a strained smile.

"That's quite alright. I'm well acquainted with Mr. Stark's utter contempt for my judgment, and there is no power on Earth that will prevent him from expressing it. Who are you, by the way?"

"Bruce Banner. I'm a… colleague of Tony's."

"_Dr. _Bruce Banner? I'm a great admirer of your work, of course. What on Earth are you doing with the likes of him?"

"I'll let you know when I find a sensible answer. But Dr. Solomon-"

"Please, Dr. Solomon in my mother. Call me Sol." Bruce was a bit taken aback by the sudden shift. Now that she wasn't directly addressing Tony, Dr. Solomon's-Sol's-demeanor had become positively amiable.

"Oh. Right. Sol, then. Listen, I know firsthand that Tony isn't the easiest of people to work with, but we have no idea what we're dealing with, here, and we need to best people we can get. I don't know what Tony did to you, and I'm sure it was egregious, but I hope that you can consider putting it aside for a little while. Just until we figure out what we're dealing with."

"I am sitting _right_ here." Tony announced sulkily. Both Bruce and Sol ignored him.

"Well, I don't exactly have a choice. I was contracted to work for Williams Industries for five years, and since that contract now belongs to Stark…" Sol trailed off and glared at the teapot, watching the partially-unfurled blossoms.

"We can't have anyone working on this project unless they're fully invested. If it's really what you want, we'll void the contract." At this, Tony actually leapt out of his seat.

"Hey, wait just a minute-"  
"Shut up, Tony. You made this mess, so just be quiet until I fix it." Sol and Tony both stared at him in stunned silence. The Dali clock on the wall ticked loudly as Bruce stared each of them down. He held eye contact with Sol until she looked away and cleared her throat.

"Tea's ready," she remarked quietly. Sure enough, a golden hue had suffused water, and the flower petals had fully unfolded. "You will run the project?" Sol asked Bruce as she poured out three cups of tea.

"Yes," he replied, glancing at Tony, who nodded. She sighed, running her finger through her long, tousled dark hair.

"Alright. I think we can come to an understanding, you and I." She grinned suddenly, infectiously, and Bruce grinned back. Things ran so smoothly once Tony stopped talking.


	4. Chapter 4

"Great!" Tony clapped his hands and tilted his chair onto its back legs. "Well, now that's all sorted out, how about a real drink? No more of this tea bullsh-"

"I don't keep alcohol in the house anymore. I've been trying to rid my life of toxic substances, you see. That's why I shut the door on _you, _Stark."

"It's true, I am _rather_ intoxicating, aren't I?"

"Why don't you stay quiet for a while so that I don't change my mind, yes?" Tony opened his mouth, clearly not inclined to taking her suggestion, but Bruce preempted him.

"If you don't mind my asking, how do you two know each other?" Sol stared at him incredulously.

"He really didn't tell you anything?" Bruce shook his head, and she leaned back in her chair, swirling her tea and considering her answer.

_July 14, 2002, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Delilah fidgeted with the hem of her linen dress, glancing around at the glittering, glamorous crowd shifting and rustling around her. When Professor Rosen had said "formal wear," clearly he had a different definition in mind. She craned to see over the heads of the heavily-adorned multitudes, searching for her professor's crown of wild silver hair and kind, bespectacled face. Or, failing that, at least a stiff whiskey._

_ "Looking for someone?" Still on the tips of her toes, she jerked around, kicked her own ankle with the unforgiving heel of her shoe, and completed her 180 degree turn by toppling forward, clutching her wounded appendage. She braced herself, but instead of impacting the cold marble floor, she was steadied by a pair of warm hands on her waist. Looking up, Delilah found a pair of sparkling dark eyes and a wicked smile._

_ "I… yes. Do you know where I could find a medical professional to hover around? As you can see, these shoes are essentially a loaded Chekhov's gun." She blushed lightly, but, she was sure, visibly. The impish stranger hadn't taken his hands away from her torso._

_ "Sorry, I make it a point to steer clear of people who give sensible advice. But I would be happy to perform any and all hovering duties that you request. And as for the shoes…"_

_ He bent down, removed both of his own impeccable, gleaming black dress shoes, turned around, and hurled them one after the other into the night. "Ahhhh. That feels much better. Your turn." Delilah was fairly sure that her jaw had dropped. _

_ "Oh, right, my turn. Of course." Still staring, she lifted one foot off the ground to remove the strappy deathtrap thereupon. When she wobbled, the capricious man with the mischievous eyes steadied her by once again placing his hand on the small of her back. It sent a pleasant shock through her spine. She jerked off the shoe and threw it as far as she could. After a moment, they heard a muffled cry of pain from somewhere in the crowd. She winced and glanced over at her co-conspirator. He was grinning madly, and she couldn't help but laugh._

_ "Well, Mr. Stark, two minutes with my researcher and you already have her launching weapons. You do work fast." They turned to see Professor Rosen surveying the scene with his usual benevolent air. _

_ "Rosen, buddy, how've you been?" Mr. Stark minced forward to grip the hand of the older man. "She's one of yours? I must say, your vision seems to have improved."_

_ "Never better, dear boy, never better. But I won't have you making eyes at her. She's too young and far too ethical for anything you might have in mind, professionally or otherwise."_

_ "I think I can decide that for myself, professor," Delilah interposed, and Stark shot her another grin. _

_ "Damn right. Also, aren't you going to congratulate me, Rosen? I seem to remember a little bet we made when I left MIT."_

_ "Oh, of course! Ten years running Stark Enterprises. I believe I owe you five dollars." Rosen began rifling through his pockets. _

_ "I'll waive the forfeit if you'll plead my case with Miss…?" He looked inquiringly at Delilah. If he weren't so charming, he would be insufferable._

_ "Solomon. Delilah Solomon."_

_ "Well that's discouragingly biblical."_

_ "I'm afraid that I had very little say in the matter."_

_ "I guess it can't be helped now. Oh, look, they're playing a non-funereal song! Come on, let's dance."_

"Tell you what. Tomorrow, you can come by and brief me on the arc reactor situation, and I'll tell you a story or two about Stark."

"You're terrible at telling stories. No timing," grumbled Tony from his chair.

"And you have no sense of reality, which I believe is the greater narrative defect," she snapped back. She turned to Bruce again. "Stop by tomorrow and we'll talk." He nodded, drained his tea, and made to stand.

"Hold on, I'm not invited?" Tony demanded indignantly.

"Emphatically not. Goodbye now. I assume you can find the door." And with that, Sol had returned to the papers, leaving them to drain their tea (or, in Tony's case, emphatically pour it down the sink) and show themselves out.

* * *

The next morning, Bruce Banner took far longer than usual to get ready. He showered, brushed his teeth twice, flossed aggressively, shaved, and even tried to run a comb through his unruly mop of hair. If anyone had asked for an explanation of the extra ablutions, he would have been at a loss to provide one.

All he knew was that, at 11:00, after car ride spent in stuffy, oppressive silence shared with a marvelously groomed, meticulously mute chauffeur provided by Tony, he found himself once again in front of the attractive brick apartment building near Portobello Market, climbing two flights of steps, and lingering indecisively in front of the door.

There was no rational reason to be nervous. He had been invited, after all. But it seemed surreal, somehow, to knock on the door of a pretty woman's apartment. It was the sort of thing that normal men did.

Just as he finally made to rap on the door, files clasped tightly to his chest, it flew open of its own accord and Delilah Solomon careened into him in her haste to escape the apartment. He dropped the papers and seized her shoulders to steady her as she slammed the door on her own heels and tripped forward onto him. When she looked up and met his eyes, her face registered pleasant surprise that he was not used to inspiring.

"Dr. Banner. How _smashing_ to see you," she exclaimed, blissfully unaware of her unfortunate choice of words. She regained her balance and raked a hand through her loose hair, smiling apologetically. "I would invite you in, but I was just in the process of fleeing."

"Fleeing?"

"Yes, fleeing. Annie-my flatmate-has company and, without going into too many details, there are..." she waved a hand vaguely, "...shenanigans transpiring." Bruce nodded sagely, biting back a grin. "So on the whole, it seemed best to leave her to enjoy her..." She trailed off, searching for a word.

"Lover?" Bruce provided.

"More gentile than the word I would have used, but that's the idea."

"Ah." Silence fell as they registered the intrinsic awkwardness of the situation: two near-strangers standing inappropriately close together in a narrow, fluorescently-lit corridor, treading on top-secret documents scattered across the floor, discussing sex and not breaking eye contact. Bruce realized that his hands were still on her shoulders and quickly dropped his arms.

"So," Sol began finally, looking away from Banner's (strangely mesmeric, she thought) dark eyes to survey the mess at their feet and raising a quizzical brow, "I assume that you weren't stopping by for a chat." Well, that wasn't encouraging.

"You invited me. Yesterday, remember?"

"Oh. Oh right! Sorry, I really must start writing these things down." She knelt down and began to gather the files haphazardly. "Are you enjoying England?" Banner joined her on the floor and mulled over his answer as he seized papers and shoved them into folders at random.

"I haven't seen much of it, actually. I'm not sure where to start."

"You ought to have someone show you around. Americans really shouldn't travel unescorted."

"You're probably right, but I don't know anyone else in London." Well, that wasn't exactly true. "I mean, I know Tony. But when I tried to walk with him he started trying out his various 'British' accents and I started wanting to try out a murder-suicide." Solomon buried her face in both hands and shook her head in despair.

"Good Lord, I thought I had broken him of that long ago. I'm so sorry that you had to go through such an ordeal. Please tell me that you didn't take him on the tube."

"I really do wish I could tell you that." Sol winced and patted his arm sympathetically with a black-gloved hand.

"You've really been through hell, haven't you? Normally I would offer you consolatory biscuits at the flat, but if you went in right now it would only add to the years of therapy that Stark has already made necessary. There's a lovely coffee shop just down the road, though. Do you care to join me?"

"Oh I don't drink coffee. Adrenaline doesn't suit me," he said with an ironic half-smile.

"Oh dear. If only there existed in England some other type of hot beverage commonly consumed with biscuits..."

"Alright, point taken," he conceded. "Are you sure you aren't busy?"

"Absolutely certain. Stark bought my job."

This time he grinned in earnest.

"Okay, then. Lead on."

* * *

**Author's note: thank you to my reviewers, Rainbor123, gammawidow67, and the mysterious Guest. All (constructive) feedback is, positive or otherwise, is always welcome.**


	5. Chapter 5

As they walked side-by-side down the street, Sol meditated on what, precisely, the hell she thought she was doing. Dr. Banner was a brilliant scientist, one whose work she had admired for years . But when she had suggested the coffee shop, she had mainly been preoccupied with his crooked, disarmingly shy smile and the way his eyes lingered on her own.

They talked easily as they walked.

Sol glanced sidelong at Bruce.

"So, dare I ask what Tony told you about me?" she asked, half facetiously, half with genuine curiosity. Bruce considered his answer for a moment.

"He said you had a really nice accent."

"Well, that's true, I suppose; it is quite magnificent. Anything else?"

"You have a proclivity for Latin aphorisms and that you'd drive me crazy in less than a week."

"Blandae mendacia linguae. I only use Latin around him because he never had the patience to learn it."

"I beat him to the end of a physics problem once. He's still sore about it."

"Well, you know, that level of megalomania requires a lot of maintenance. He must be exhaus-" Sol stopped walking abruptly, glanced around, and rolled her eyes. "Come on, we've overshot. You'd think that with all the hype, either Oxford or MIT would have taught me to walk and talk at the same time." Bruce followed her back past several shops until they reached a shadowy door, retreating with a surly unobtrusiveness into the shadows of the stone building. Sol jerked the door open and stood aside for him to pass. The dimly lit interior comprised a firmly closed wooden door painted a faded and flaking red, and a steep, narrow wooden set of stairs.

"It's just up those stairs. Two flights."

_What an oddity. _He thought, as he trudged up the staircase with Sol ascending impatiently behind him, taking two steps at a time and waiting in between for him to move out of her way. _Who would hide a coffee shop?_

He passed the first landing, and saw through a glass door what looked like the contents of several large antique shops compressed into one small, dark room. When he reached the second, he found himself faced with another door painted the same shade as the one on the ground floor, but painted with a new, glossy coat of red. Inscribed on a burnished bronze plaque at eye-level were the words: _The Stowaway. _

"Well go on then," Sol said behind him. "I'm uncaffeinated over here." Bruce stepped inside and found himself caught quite off guard by the interior. In contrast to the rest of the dingy building, this room was filled with light and warm smells of coffee beans and pastries. The soft hum of gentle conversation and laughter enveloped them as Sol led him to a table by the window, and from a turntable in the corner there emanated smoky strains of Nina Simone's voice. And yet, it was a quality apart from the cafe clichés that drew Bruce in; a kind of conspiratorial air. One felt initiated in a cozy secret, as though _The Stowaway _were their very own secret clubhouse.

"What'll you have?" Bruce returned his eyes to Sol's, and found, strangely, that she looked different. Not in any concrete way, but in these surroundings she herself seemed more familiar, like flesh and blood instead of the whirling dervish of swift little movements and apt phrases that she had been a few minutes ago. Yes, she had been just as pretty last night as she was right at that moment, but now the pink flush in her cheeks, the rarified freckles on her pert nose, the quirk of her straight brow had become personal.

"Uh… some sort of tea…" He fumbled to think of type other than tea.

"Not to worry, Mort will choose something for you," she said, gesturing to the enormous, grotesquely ugly man behind the counter; he looked like a Da Vinci sketch, with a stormy brow, a drastic hook to his nose, and a protruding jaw. When he saw Sol, he broke abruptly into a sunny smile, revealing a mouth of shapeless, overlapping teeth. "He has a sense for these things." So saying, she crossed the room in five large strides and immersed herself in conversation with the behemoth Mort, leaving Bruce to resume his examination of the breezy room and their fellow patrons.

Next to the gramophone, four college students had drawn a pair of tables together and chattered animatedly over the screens of their laptops. Every so often, the boy and the girl sitting diagonal from each other would bump feet under the table and smile surreptitiously at one another. Their friends didn't seem to notice.

At the corner table, sitting with his back against a wall, a lean, scruffy middle-aged man scribbled furiously in a black leather book, muttering under his breath.

In the center of the table, sipping their steaming drinks sedately, an elegant elderly couple, both dressed entirely in black, sat in complete silence and stared over each other's left shoulders. Bruce watched them for a while, but neither stirred from their impeccable posture.

"Eerie, isn't it?" Sol had returned, setting two mugs down on the table and sliding into the seat across from him. "I've spoken to them; they make perfectly delightful conversation, but the second it ends they go right back to staring." She grinned at him. "Now, since you obviously can't brief me on confidential material here, I suppose the exposition is up to me. What do you want to know?"

"Oh, I…" It was hard to tell, he reflected, which questions he could ask. He had grown up in the years before the Google and social networking sites, and he still found himself unwilling to use the internet to gather information about people. Given Tony's lifelong love affair with the press, Bruce was sure that a few words typed into the search engine could have clarified a few points on the tech wizard's relationship with Delilah Solomon, but instead he found himself struggling to construct a tactfully-phrased way to extract the answer from her. Sol took a long gulp from her mug, watching him intently.

"We were engaged," she said finally, just as he tried to center his thoughts with a sip of tea. He barely had time to register the warm, deliciously spicy taste before spitting it out in shock. Sol smiled sardonically.

"_What?" _he sputtered.

"You wanted to ask how Tony and I knew each other, I assume? Well, the short version is that I left New York on the evening before our wedding." She spoke evenly, as though imparting a recipe.

"What's the long version?" he asked, recovering his composure.

"You might need more tea."

* * *

Author's note: Now, when I came back to this story it was covered in a delicate layer of lovely, springy green moss and a few skeletons were reclining against it with friendly grins on their faces. I've tried to dust it off slightly with what I freely admit is a purely nebulous, transitional chapter, with hopes that now summer's come I might muster the resolve to eventually move the story along in an actual direction.

Thanks to Starcrier, Collykins, and Rainbor for your kind reviews; you have stroked the narcissism that motivates my writing.


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